This seems sorta story-ish rather than poem thought...I just don't like poems and I'm actually writing it...

Tracing art

I trace lines, curves, circles.

"Good night big brother!"

With the best writing I can do

I trace lines, curves, circles

I draw and paint

A smile for you, brother

A yellow face with a big grin

I leave it and go to bed

He comes when the moon is high

He comes tired but proud

He saved a patient

He reads my letter and smiles

I am on the ground, dirty

People laugh at my suffering

I just go back home

I trace lines, curves, circles.

"Good night brother."

No smile, no color.

He reads and he stays

Exhausted on the bed

I lie there and trace

I trace lines, curves, circles

"Good night brother."

Fake happiness was noticeable

He reads and frowns

"Tell me anything."

I didn't say anything

He leaves to work

I stay and time stops

Time moves slowly

A wave of pain

A thousand swords

A thousand knifes

On my back they are buried

What I trace is not art

"Good night."

He frowns again

More pain, more stress

Another wave hits

I trace art, line, circle, curves

"Good night big brother!"

I color everything

I draw, I show my emotions

He comes and reads it

Perfect art, perfect writing

He smiles and stores it

"Happy birthday, brother!"

It's NOT incest.

I just remember my brother's birthday that has passed by like months ago but I still remember how happy he was when I fixed his bass and I was happy.

He won't read this of course but I don't really care, I just felt like expressing it.